I tried to paint roses over a fight we had
and make it literary and profound.
On a third draft I realized I should
say "I'm sorry" and leave it at that.
Then I realized you probably didn't give a shit
because it happened two decades ago,
but I still remember the stab in the palm of my hand
when I thought it would only hit your cheek
and it caught in its sweep,
above your frustrated words
at my irrational resistance,
the angles and bars
and delicacies
of your
glasses.
I'm sorry.
